


Pavlov's Maw

by SailorSue



Series: Pavlov [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Gen, Hallucinations, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychology, Spencer Reid Whump, Unsub | Unknown Subject
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSue/pseuds/SailorSue
Summary: Spencer tapped the whiteboard, his marker pen hitting the words ‘Stimulus > Response > Reinforcement’. “I think we should modify these so my subconscious can’t automate my actions.”“I agree, Dr Reid,” Tara said. “And I don’t like some of the ways I’ve come up with for doing that.”In which the BAU attempt to un-condition their behaviorally conditioned behavioral analyst.
Series: Pavlov [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901395
Comments: 50
Kudos: 48





	1. Plan

**Author's Note:**

> In part one of the series, a paranoid and confused Dr Spencer Reid was released by an unsub after months of isolation. The shipping container he was held in - his Cell - was dark, cold and silent with an electrified floor. To get survival basics - food, water, air and the like - he had to press buttons, operate levers, hold still, even sing. Reid tried to resist the operant conditioning (where specific behaviours are encouraged by their consequences). However, unbeknownst to him, the unsub was also triggering him with subliminal scent stimuli; when he was released, those same scent stimuli induced him to press buttons, operate levers, hold still, even sing... and there was very little he could do about it.
> 
> Welcome back everyone! It’s great to be writing again. I’d like to reiterate my disclaimer from the first part: I have researched behavioural psychology and the effects of sensory deprivation but anything flagged as cutting edge research is completely made up by me. I’ve also taken some author liberties along the way to help the story flow. Please don’t try this at home!

> _Instincts are thus modified into habits in accordance with the law that any act which in a given situation produces satisfaction becomes associated with that situation, so that when the situation recurs the act is more likely than before to recur also. Conversely, any act which in a given situation produces discomfort becomes dissociated from that situation, so that when the situation recurs the act is less likely than before to recur_. Thorndike, EL (1905). “The psychology of learning.”

* * *

Spencer slowed as he traversed the short corridor connecting his room to the kitchen. Information assaulted him from every one of his senses and, despite the progress he had made, he was still struggling to process it quickly enough. Luke was holding a whispered conversation behind a closed door, his feet padded and the material of his pants rustled with each step he took, faint clattering came from the nearby kitchenette; noise leaked in from the busy base outside: shouts and chatter from service men and women living their lives. Stale, recycled air flavoured with a hint of coffee and detergent chilled his face; close weave carpeting scratched against his soles; overly bright artificial light flickered overhead. He passed the light switch and his fingers trailed up the wall. With a click, gloom enveloped his surroundings.

Better.

He allowed a fern to unfurl itself nearby. Ivy meandered up the wall and reality faded for a moment.

The door to the kitchenette swung open. The smell of coffee instantly got stronger, overlaid with a hint of baking. Tara’s head briefly stuck out then the rest of her followed. “There you are!” she said.

He jerked back to the present, nails digging into his arm, and surveyed his friend while she continued to speak. A day and a half after _it_ , and her eye was now a swollen mess which had developed into a spectacular swirl of purple and black. The makeshift splint on her arm was gone and in its place was a discreet brace. Yet her demeanour was friendly exasperation. There was no undercurrent of blame in her expression. No accusation of _you did this_.

“…to look for you,” Tara finished.

“Uh, no search parties needed,” he guessed in reply. “I’m here.”

“As are bagels. Hope you’re hungry.”

Reid pored over the task list with Tara, the bagel forgotten in his hand and dangerously close to dripping honey on the floor. They’d already, with a distinct air of triumph, put a line through 'creating a list of triggers', and decided that the third item - reintroducing full sensory input - was happening so organically it didn’t need to be stated. Tara had also quietly crossed out ‘catch the unsub’, recognising that Reid felt distanced from the process. They’d agreed that seeking professional help and considering publishing could both be filed under ‘Later’ and dealt with once he was able to leave the secure unit.

Tara had been updating the list while they talked, and she now spun it round for Spencer to double-check:

  1. ~~Create a list of triggers and their reactions~~.
  2. Overcome detectably-triggered reactions.
  3. ~~Reintroduce full sensory input~~.
  4. Research and test methods to overcome scent triggers.
  5. Attempt to recover memories from The Gap.
  6. LATER: Deal with Reid’s hallucinations and paranoia.
  7. ~~Catch the unsub~~.
  8. LATER: Publish the research?



He nodded, remembered his bagel and took a bite. “What first?” he indistinctly mumbled.

“I’d like to get started on the scent triggers,” Tara suggested. “Once we figure out how to keep you lucid when exposed to them, we’ll be able to plan properly how to deprogram you.”

Spencer chewed while he considered this. On the one hand, it was a route which would bring the advantage of providing a definite way ahead in his recovery. On the other, he suspected that the reason he wasn’t being given access to the paper so far was because of the circumstances of his abduction and return, and he was both curious and afraid about what he might find out.

Tara obviously sensed his reluctance. “The scent triggers are the key to your recovery,” she said. “Finding out what your brain is hiding from you will answer some questions, but you’re likely to want to talk to someone about it afterwards… and for that you need to be recovered enough to leave the unit.”

It made sense, even if it was a bit alarming - but then again, what about this wasn’t? - so he finished off his mouthful, pushed the list away and twisted on the bench to better face Tara. “I’ve been thinking about how to go about this,” he said.

Tara grinned. “So’ve I. But you go first, Dr Reid.”

He acknowledged her offer by flipping over the whiteboard and grabbing a pen. “I’m presuming our working theory,” he said, uncapping the pen and gesturing at Tara with it, “Is that I didn’t fight becoming conditioned to the scent triggers because I didn’t know they were there.” He barely paused to allow Tara to nod. “And that over months of reinforcement, my brain made associations between the scent stimuli, my responses and the way the Cell reinforced my actions with punishments and rewards.”

“A sort of hybrid between classical Pavlovian conditioning and operant conditioning,” Tara agreed.

“Right.” Spencer took a moment to scribble ‘STIMULUS -> RESPONSE -> REINFORCEMENT’ on the whiteboard. When he was done, his hands started gesticulating to emphasise his words.“While I was in the Cell, I tried to fight against the Stimulus-Response path where I could.”

“You mentioned that before,” interjected Tara, weirdly distracted by his waving hand. “You’d deliberately delay reacting to the water chime.”

Spencer nodded. “I was quite successful at first.” He caught sight of marker pen staining his hands and he realised what had Tara distracted. He capped the pen. “Albeit I was consistently punished by the floor. We saw it when testing the triggers: I was able to resist my conditioning in some cases. I know what was effective in breaking the pathway when I was able to detect the stimulus.” He reached over to the box of markers and drew out a red pen, wrapping his fingers around both it and the leaky blue one. “In effect, I was attempting to alter my response.”

“Shaping,” Tara agreed. “You were shaping it.”

“Exactly.” He uncapped the red pen and wrote SHAPE on the whiteboard. “Gradual reform of the conditioned response into something more acceptable.” He went back to punctuating his words by pointing pens at Tara. “After a few months, I became less effective at doing so. I’m not sure whether the punishment of the floor shocks, my dissociative state, or the conditioning of the subliminal scents was the cause.”

“It was likely a mixture of all three.”

Reid gave an ‘mmm’ of agreement. “The thing is,” he said, “Is that I need to be aware that I am acting before we can hope to shape my actions.”

“Yes. Take breathing: most of the time you don’t think about it, but if I want to shape your breathing - say making you take a deep breath, I’d ask you to focus on it.”

“Or force the issue by denying me air for a while.”

“Right,” she agreed, mouth twisting. “Or I could model the behavior I wanted, and you would probably mimic it.”

“But these would all need me conscious of what was going on around me. I think we need to focus on interrupting this sequence.” He tapped the whiteboard where Stimulus -> Response -> Reinforcement was written. “I think we should look at how to present these in such a way that my subconscious can’t automate the actions I take.”

“I agree, Dr Reid. And I don’t like some of the ways I’ve come up with for doing that.”

He curled his lip. “That makes two of us. Do you want to go first?”

She sighed, twisting her hands in her lap and gently said, “Restrain you.”

He wrote RESTRAINT on the whiteboard without comment and added DENIAL on the line below. “We could remove the tools for my reaction,” he explained. “Although that hasn’t worked well so far.”

Tara’s fingers came up and touched her bruised face before she hurriedly moved on. “We could flood your senses by keeping the scent in the room until you are conscious of it.”

“If that happens.”

“I’m confident it would. Eventually. But there’s a strong probability you would work yourself past the point of exhaustive collapse before then.”

He glumly wrote FLOOD on the whiteboard before perking up slightly. “Here’s one I would like to try: two scents at once. I was never made to do two responses concurrently in the Cell, and I think that might be because the unsub knew I’d need to think to decide which action to take first.”

Tara gave a slow smile. “I like it.”

He gave a triumphant grin and wrote CONFUSE on the board, adding, “And how about distracting me? If I’m focused on something else just at the moment the trigger hits, perhaps it’ll...” He trailed off, suddenly doubtful.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” said Tara, and tapped the board for him to write DISTRACT. “And add DROWN too - we could try giving you such a strong alternative scent that your brain has to work to get past it.”

He wrote the word down, then twisted his fingers and made the pens disappear. “How about EXTINGUISH?” he asked with a smirk.

“You mean remove the resultant reinforcement?” She contemplated. “Well, there’s plenty of precedent for it being a valid treatment. In theory it should work with this conditioned behaviour too. We’d have to see. Still, definitely worth trying.”

“That’s all I had,” he admitted once he had made the red pen reappear and added the word.

“You’re not going to like this one,” she said, “But we could try partially incapacitating you. If your brain has to work harder than it expects for motor control, it might throw you out of any involuntary response.”

There was a beat of silence before he replied in flat voice, “You mean drugs.”

“Yes. Or alcohol.”

Spencer took a fortifying breath and wrote INCAPACITATE.

“And I had a couple more,” Tara said, pushing on, “Although the first is a bit of a long shot: we could have you already doing the action when the scent is added.” Spencer gave her a doubtful glance. “No, think about it,” she reassured him. “You’re already breathing at the moment, but the fact that I’ve just mentioned it means that you’ve started thinking about the fact that you are breathing.”

“I guess,” Spencer conceded. “But I’m not holding out much hope that’ll work.” Still he wrote PRECEDE on the board on the basis that it would be quick and relatively painless to check. “What was the other one?”

“Changing the reinforcement your action triggers. You expect to receive water after smelling perfume, so we give you something else instead.”

“Uh huh.” Spencer tapped the pen on the board. “What sort of something else?”

“Well, it could be orange juice. But you know the theory here.”

“Yeah.” He nodded glumly. “You want to try aversion therapy; give me a punishment reinforcement rather than a rewarding one. Treating alcoholism, statistically aversion therapy has one of the highest rates of success in stopping the undesirable behaviour, but the impact often isn’t long term - there are frequent relapses after treatment stops.”

“True. But all we want to do is break into your autonomous conditioning. Once we’ve done that you can shape the behaviour yourself.”

He accepted the point with an ‘huh’ of agreement and wrote AVERSION. “Anything else?”

They both pondered for a moment. “There’s research coming out around stopping drug addictions which might be relevant,” Tara mused. “It’s looking at improving decision pathways. They are inviting participants to meditate just before shooting up in the hope that the delay allows their brain time to calculate the long term pros and cons as well as the more immediate ‘I need a fix’. Admittedly, the participants are making conscious, albeit poor, decisions.” Spencer cringed unseen beside her. He drummed his fingers and pens on the table, wondering whether or not to go into all the reasons why he thought that wouldn’t work. “Hey,” Tara said. “At worst it’ll be relaxing to try it, and you may even find it useful in the future.” She plucked the red pen from his twitching fingers and wrote MEDITATE on the board. Her handwriting was so different that after a moment Spencer wiped it off, took the pen back and wrote it again in his awkward lettering.

“What order do you want to try these in?” Tara asked after they’d both been silently contemplating the board for a while.

He tapped his lips. “MEDITATE, PRECEDE, DISTRACT, DROWN, EXTINGUISH, CONFUSE, INCAPACITATE, RESTRAIN, AVERSION, FLOOD and then DENY,” he eventually decided. “I think that represents the optimum balance between escalating execution difficulty, likelihood of success and risk of further trauma.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Tara. “Grab yourself another coffee and we’ll go set up.”

He turned to do so, then abruptly turned back. “Wait, which scent are we going to test these against?” But before Tara could reply, he stated, “Oh. Juniper.”

“Yes,” came her agreement. “Your conditioning is relatively strong, neither the heater nor the bicycle pump are likely to be harmful to you, and we can shape your reaction quite simply by asking you to wait longer between each pump.”

“Okay,” he agreed, and set off to get his coffee.


	2. Test

**Meditate**

Reid settled into the cushions, quilt and linen they’d scrounged from other rooms. The light dimmed and he closed his eyes, coffee warming his hands in the slightly chill room. The unobtrusive plink of harp and guitar chords from Alvez’s choice of meditative music swirled gently around him. His clothing was loose fitting, his socks were odd, his watch was just the right degree of tightness.

“Take a deep breath,” Tara instructed.

He obligingly did so, and the luxurious smell of coffee made him belatedly realize that clutching a mug of hot liquid could be a mistake if he zoned out here. “Uh, Tara,” he stage-whispered.

“Mmmm?”

He blinked his eyes open. “I gotta, uh…”

She blushed. “Oh, sorry. Sure.”

“Thanks.” He took a few giant slugs of coffee and set the mug down. “Okay, ready now.” Snuggling back into his comfortable nest, he closed his eyes, matched his breathing to the music, and wondered what to do with his hands.

His friend gave a soft, amused laugh. “Ah, Dr Reid, we’ve missed you.” He heard her shift slightly, then in a quiet, deliberate tone, she told him to relax.

The summer sunset was giving the small mountain lake a balmy, pink-shaded feel. Spencer, sweat prickling under the warm breeze, had kicked off his shoes and socks and waded in to cool down.

“Hey there, stranger,” Emily said, splashing through shallow water to reach him. She was holding a pebble and, as she drew near, she tossed it with a flick of her wrist. They watched together as it skimmed across the still water, trailing a line of expanding ripples. “Fifteen!” she crowed as the pebble finally sank.

“I think I might hate you,” Spencer muttered.

“Aw, c’mon. You’ve just gotta do it right.” She dropped a pebble into his right palm. “Crouch down a bit and swing your arm back… like that. Now, when you toss out the stone, try to put some spin on it.”

He threw the stone out underarm. It gave a half-hearted bounce before disappearing into the water and he twisted his lips, disgruntled. Emily silently offered him another stone, which he tossed with equally miserable results. “Did you know we’re the only country to consider number of skips in world records?” he asked. “The rest of the world measures distance covered instead.”

“You’re planning to try for a record?”

He glanced across at her. She was smirking, face bathed in the glow of fading light. “No, I guess not,” he grinned, then frowned. “Wait… Emily, why is it so warm? We’re on a mountain after a sunny day.”

“I’m not complaining.” And she rolled her shoulders in luxuriating comfort.

“No, it’s… it’s called katabatic flow. As night falls, cool air on higher slopes drains down into valleys. This makes no sense.”

He came to with a gasp, finding himself at the pump, warm air streaming down his back.

“Well, we didn’t really expect that to work,” Tara consoled.

He blinked at her, disorientated, wondering how he’d lost focus on the meditation so quickly. “Are we… should we try that again?”

Tara twisted her lips. “You reacted the moment the juniper was put in, Reid.”

He winced. “Oh.” After a moment he stepped back from the pump. “That was… okay, okay. We didn’t expect it to work.” He took a calming deep breath. “So, what now?”

Tara glanced at her notepad. “Now you keep pumping.”

“Keep - we’re going straight into the next one?”

**Precede**

“Yes. Although this time try keeping focus on what you’re doing by talking me through it.”

“Ooo-kay.” He re-approached the pump, lifted his foot onto the pedal and pressed a few times. “I’m, uh, pumping,” he said, feeling as awkward as his explanation. The tire, already inflated from previously, didn’t need much air. “And now the resistance is right so I’m stopping,” he added, doing just that. “Did you know that the first bicycle tire with an inflatable inner tube was invented by a Scottish man called Dunlop in 1887? He made it for his son’s tricycle.” He watched as Tara leaned across and peeled off the band aid. “And now I guess I’m pumping again,” he grumbled over the increased hiss of air.

“Yeah. Sorry.” She didn’t sound it.

He pressed down on the pump. “In technical terms, pumps are actually a very simple mechanism. As I press down with my foot, a cylinder within the casing moves towards the tire valve. That reduces the space within the casing meaning the air is compressed. That higher pressure air pushes open the valve and air enters the tire.” He lifted his foot. “As the lever retracts, the cylinder returns to its original position, the tire valve closes and air re-enters the cas…”

“Reid.”

He blinked. Tara had apparated on his other side.

“No, not again,” he groaned.

“Well, we didn’t expect that one to work,” she replied, reattaching a band aid. He shrugged in disconsolate agreement. “Let’s tidy up and have dinner. The next one can wait until tomorrow.”

**Distract**

He awoke well rested and comfortable for the first time in, well, ages. He’d kept hold of the cushions overnight which had helped matters no end. He’d showered, eaten breakfast, checked in on Hope, and was wondering if he’d have success with a request for a few items of furniture when Roxy bounded in and sank her teeth into a cushion.

Luke appeared a moment later. “No, Rox!” he complained. “You’re meant to be distracting the patient here. Not slobbering over the furnishings.”

Roxy violently shook herself, worrying the cushion rather than letting it go. Reid started laughing, even as he took ahold of the cushion and began to try to tug it from the dog. Alvez hugged his pet around the shoulders and together they tried separating Roxy from her prize. Roxy, naturally, threw herself into the game, playfully tugging back as Reid tried to prize the cushion from her.

“Maybe try giving her a chew,” Spencer suggested.

“Right.” Luke dug about in his pocket while Spencer continued to wrestle with the exuberant dog…

He came back to himself to find Roxy butting her nose at his legs for attention. Luke was stood back from the pump, watching with wary eyes.

“Urghh,” Spencer muttered, and crouched down to ruffle Roxy’s fur.

“Well, you didn’t really expect that to work,” Luke said, and Reid sighed.

**Drown**

As Tara already had some to hand, they grabbed some VapoRub ahead of the next attempt, following the old cop trick to mask unwanted smells. He rubbed it on his top lip ahead of the juniper scent being sent in. But he lost time again, coming back to his senses to find Tara handing him a wipe. “Don’t worry, Reid,” she reassured him. “Trying to drown out a scent when you’ve triggered off it subliminally in the past was always going to be a bit of a long shot. We didn’t really think that one would work.”

**Extinguish**

He found the foot pump lever, as he so often had in the past, by tripping over it while strolling through the forest. “Ouch,” Emily commiserated while he swore under his breath. He planted his palms in the dirt, clambered back to his feet, dusted off pine needles and checked he hadn’t sprained anything. “You should be more careful,” she added. “Magically appearing levers seem to be a common hazard around here.”

His ankles were fine, his wrist a little sore. Still, the imaginary moonlight was fading and the equally unreal warmth was leaching from his chilly, pitch-black cell. He felt around with his foot until he found the lever again, and started pumping. Air whooshed satisfactorily, and the pressure he needed to apply gradually built until…

“What?” asked Emily.

“I don’t know.”

He stopped and stood still, frowning in the gloom. Something wasn’t quite right, but he wasn’t sure what. He uncertainly put his foot back on the lever and pumped again. Air whooshed, pressure built up, and…

“It’s still cold,” he realized.

“You’re in a mountain forest in the dark, genius.” Emily’s tone suggested she’d included an eye roll.

“I’m in a shipping container, buried underground,” he corrected. “But it still usually gets warmer when I do this.”

They stared, unseeing, at the pump. “Can you fix it?” she asked eventually.

“No.” He knelt. “This lever is the only bit I can access.” He put his hand down on the pump. “See?” She couldn’t, but anyway. “The rest goes into the Shelf.”

Emily reached down and pulled him back to his feet. “So now what?”

He bit his lip, uncertain. “Uh, try to find a working pump?”

“In the dark?” she scoffed. “You think there are that many of them?” She glanced across at him. “Okay, you _do_ think that. Fair enough. Lead on.”

Spencer sighed and trailed off. A few yards down the path, moonlight glinted off a barely visible _something_ on the verge. He peered at it.

It was the lever to a foot pump.

It was cold. He started pumping.

“Don’t say it,” he begged when he’d come to and worked out where he was.

“That we didn’t expect that to work? I won’t,” Tara incorrectly reassured him. “Still, that one might be worth revisiting later.”

He gave an unenthusiastic shrug in response. “I only stopped when you removed the juniper.”

“True. But that’s to be expected, Reid. Your brain needs time to make the association that the reinforcement of the response is no longer there.”

“I’m…” He paused. Did Tara know that when the juniper pulled him back to the Cell, ‘Emily’ appeared? How should he explain his fear that together they were fabricating a plausible new explanation for the lack of warm air? His own brain was probably undermining this experiment. “Do you think it’s possible-” he eventually mumbled.

She was half out the door, having used the time while he was woolgathering to chat quietly with whoever was out there. Nevertheless, at his words, she turned back and gave him her full attention. “Do I think what’s possible?”

“That Em- uh…” Did he need to mention Emily? Maybe not. “That I might self-explain the lack of warm air. So Extinguish will never work.”

She considered. “Maybe, Dr Reid. That’s why I recommend we press on with other tests before circling back to Extinguish.”

“Okay.” He mentally reviewed the list. “Confuse is next? Where we try two scents at once?”

**Confuse**

“Yes. We just trying to work out which scent to send in with the juniper.” She waited a moment to see if he had anything else to add, then turned back to the person outside.

Reid ran his hands through his hair. They were now about to move onto attempts which he thought had a chance of working, so if they _didn’t_ work then he was inevitably going to be crushed. He was also trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that if Confuse didn’t work, then after this was Incapacitate, which involved alcohol or _drugs_ -

“How does that sound, Dr Reid?”

“Uh, what? Sorry.”

“Juniper and Banana as the first set of dual scents?” _Heat and sleep deprivation_ Spencer’s brain translated. “They both cause you to move.”

“Will that, uh, confuse me enough?”

“Maybe. If nothing happens, we can try Juniper and Nivea 3-in-1. I’m just wary of jumping straight in with non-complementary stimuli.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed.

“Then whenever you’re ready, Anderson,” Tara called out. “And try to relax, Spencer.”

Why did she think he wasn’t relaxed? Reid realized he was pressing his fingernails into his arm. He deliberately stuffed his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing evenly.

When he came back to himself this time, he was surprised to find himself lying in the recovery position on the floor. He weakly levered himself onto his side and threw Tara a look which said ‘ _what happened_?’ without actually needing to say the words.

“You collapsed onto the cushions,” she told him, a slight wobble of anxiety in her voice. “You’ve been stuporous for about ten minutes, comatose for five before that. The two scents appeared to utterly overwhelm your cognitive abilities. I’ve… I’ve no idea why.”

“I’m a medical freak,” he groaned, reaching a hand to caress his left ankle: this time it felt as though he _had_ sprained it. “Owww.” He kept his hand in place as he gingerly sat up and scooted to rest his back against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Reid,” she commiserated. “I know you wanted that one to work.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I did.” He watched as tendrils of ivy climbed the dark corners of the room. “Is that enough for today?”

Tara shot him a fond smile. “Yes, it is. Anderson’s here tonight. Agent Prentiss has asked for my input on a case: the Bishop is back.”

“The bomber who mails chess pieces to victims’ home addresses?”

“The very same. Or a copycat who knows unreleased details. And as Matt and I made the arrest-”

Tara kept talking, not realizing she’d lost her audience. “Uh, _Matt_ …” Reid whispered, startled by the abrupt disorientation he felt. He felt his face flush and a headache thump. He looked up to see Tara, oblivious, packing away the equipment, still talking about the case. “Tara, he hasn’t… I mean, I haven’t…”

Tara looked up at his interruption. “Reid? Are you okay?”

“I… Matt’s not here.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. He was promoted to run the Boston field office. He moved there with Kristy and the family back in March.” She was still looking at him with concern. “Reid? What is it? Do you need some water?”

The heat in his face morphed to numbness and it became difficult to breathe. He felt jolted by the realization that everyone on his team had lived a year of their lives without him. Or rather, that they’d all lived a _different_ year of their lives than the one he’d invented for them. He couldn’t quite believe that he’d been so self-absorbed that - once he’d pierced his elaborate bubble of make-believe - it hadn’t occurred to him to find out what had been going on outside it. While Tara sent Anderson to get water, he clambered to his feet and fought to get control of his reaction - steady breathing, eyes shut, scratching his arms, limping back and forth. Ivy, moss, ferns and saplings raced to carpet the walls and floor; low-lying branches caught at his head and arms. He fought through it all.

“Reid?” “Uh umm?” Tara’s enquiry and Anderson’s exclamation hit his ears. He stopped pacing and looked across to where they stood in the doorway. He blinked to bring them into focus.

“Where’s my mom?” he croaked.

Anderson was nothing like as good at keeping his reactions under control as Tara; his guilt-ridden swallow and involuntary sideways glance at his colleague gave Spencer an immediate clue the answer wasn’t one he was going to be happy about. Tara undoubtedly saw dismay wash over his face but she held his gaze steadily. “Your mother’s Alzheimer’s deteriorated to the point where she needed round the clock supervision. We had to move her to a care facility.” She handed off a paper cup to Anderson and firmly pushed him out the door. “Tell SSA Prentiss,” she instructed.

The dizziness and ringing in his ears was abruptly too much. He clumsily sat down on a rock and buried his face in his hands. How had his mom slipped his mind? He couldn’t understand it. He rather thought he’d never forgive himself for that.

“No, Reid, don’t think that,” Emily told him. She was standing in the center of the room, looking down at where he was curled up in a corner. “She wouldn’t know you if you visited anyway.”

He hiccupped a gasp and swiped tears and snot from his face. “Who… which are you?” he choked out. And then, when his question was met with confused silence, added, “Are you real, or the other one?”

“Ah.” Emily traded a look with Tara. “You know you have to figure that out for yourself, Reid.”

He felt her settle beside him on the floor, and then she drew him into a sideways hug. “Diana is getting excellent care,” Emily soothed. “I’ve left the facility details with Dr Lewis so you can check for yourself later.” His nose collided with her shoulder, sliming her expensive shirt. He felt it slick back across his cheek.

“Oh god, you’re real,” he despaired, shame rushing into the gaps that remorse had left in his psyche. He wriggled his way free and dropped his gaze. “I’m s-sorry.”

“What for?” She looked down. “Oh. No, don’t worry.” She flapped the shirt out. “My go-bag is in the office.”

Another concern popped up. “But the briefing…”

“Is going ahead without me. We’ve been waiting for you to realize there’s life happening outside, Spencer. It’s a big step in your recovery.”


	3. Unsub

Spencer was fixing himself coffee and cereal in the kitchen the next morning when Tara and Emily arrived together. Tara drew to a halt just inside the doorway and folded her arms, frowning. Emily approached the breakfast bar and silently drew out a stool then sat on it.

He took one look at his boss’s apprehensive demeanor, matched it with Tara’s obvious disapproval, and said, “Uh oh.”

Truth to tell, he hadn’t been looking forward to whatever today brought anyway. If Tara continued the stimulus sensing experiments, he was about to be drugged then tied up then ‘punished’. If she focused on his mom, then he was going to have to face a year’s worth of Alzheimer’s deterioration in an institutional setting he hadn’t chosen for her; even though his check of the details showed that the team had chosen well in his absence, _he’d_ wanted to be the one choosing when the time inevitably came. And if Tara went off script and tried to dig into his missing memories… well, there was probably a reason his brain was hiding the information from him: Tara had hinted as much.

But none of those required Emily’s presence this early. And none of them were likely to cause Tara’s body language to be so hostile.

“Can I have some of that?” Emily pointed at the coffee maker. Spencer busied himself for a minute pouring them all mugs, fetching down sugar and creamer, and passing around spoons. Emily took a cautious sip, winced, and began to gently blow at her drink.

Spencer frowned at the obvious prevarication. He looked across at Tara since it appeared Emily didn’t want to say whatever she was here to say. “What?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened, Reid,” Tara reassured him, at the same moment as Emily said, “She’s not talking.”

He focused on Emily’s statement. “What do you mean, ‘She’s not talking’? Who’s not talking? My mom?” But both women shook their heads simultaneously, neither meeting his gaze. Understanding crashed in. “You mean… you mean, the unsub?” He reached for the sugar and poured a stream in. “I thought we were all on the same page that I shouldn’t interrogate her? I mean… that’s why you’re here, right? To ask me.”

“We wouldn’t ask that, Reid,” Tara soothed.

“You’re not allowed anyway,” Emily added. “You haven’t been reinstated yet.”

“But you’re here to ask me to do _something_ ,” he persisted.

“Yes. Her lawyer has blocked us questioning her on the basis of ‘National Security’.” Emily added air quotes with a disgusted look on her face. “Garcia tried to hack past the block - don’t ask - but there wasn’t one.”

Which made no sense to him. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Emily held his confused gaze. “The paperwork is in order,” she clarified. “But the computer record is not.”

“And,” Tara added, “Because we didn’t discover that legitimately-”

“-we can’t refute the block and continue to question her.”

“So… charge her.” He looked from one worried colleague to the other. “I don’t understand the problem. Isn’t she the unsub?”

“Oh, she’s the unsub,” said Tara.

“We’ve placed you in a shipping container she purchased,” Emily agreed. “But we can’t establish that she knew you were in it. It’s not going to hold up.”

“What, uh, what does that mean, exactly? For me, now.”

“We think-” Emily failed to catch Tara’s eye for support. “ _I_ think if she saw you - if we put you in the same room as her, even for a moment - her fixation will push her behavior past the point of credible professional interest.”

“Oh.” He took a sip of coffee and, like Emily, found it too hot. Unlike Emily, he took another fortifying - albeit scalding - slug. “O-okay.”

“Reid…” Tara stopped herself. He looked at her across the lip of his mug and she tried again. “Are you… are you _sure_ all the stimuli were listed in that paper?”

His breath caught and his hand trembled at her unvoiced suggestion that he might have as-yet undiscovered responses. He hastily put the mug back on the counter before the coffee slopped everywhere. He turned wide eyes to Emily and then back to Tara. “Yes! Yes, I’m sure. I mean, as much as I can be without actually, you know, _reading_ the paper.” But Tara still looked worried. “I don’t remember any other conditioning,” he attempted to reassure her. “And there weren’t any other panels on the Shelf.”

“What about an undocumented subliminal trigger for some behavior that we already know about?”

“Umm.” The possibility thrust Spencer into silence; Emily sighed and stood.

“Wear your respirator, Reid,” she decided. “And maybe we should consider ear plugs.”

“Why not go for the blindfold too just to be sure?” he snarked.

To his consternation, Emily seemed to be giving the flippant suggestion serious thought. He hastened to dissuade her. “Em, you’ve just said you need her reaction to establish her as the unsub. If you leave me unable to interact with her, there’s a much higher chance she’ll keep control of her behavior.”

“And if you can’t control _your_ behavior?”

“Worst case? There’ll be a guard in there with me.”

“That’s unacceptable.” He started to object, but Emily hadn’t finished. “Dr Lewis told me about your collapse yesterday. We can’t be sure we know what would happen with you in the same room as the unsub and I’m not prepared to play Russian Roulette with your mental health.” She looked away and drummed her fingers on the breakfast bar. “Your senses isolated and you secured or she walks, Reid.”

“What?” He backed away until he bumped into a kitchen counter and caught a faint scent of damp moss. “No! No, dammit.” He looked across at Tara for support. “I’m not… don’t make me do that,” he pleaded.

To his relief, she took up his cause. “Agent Prentiss…” Tara seemed to be searching for words. “He’s… You’re advocating re-introducing sensory deprivation in the presence of a known threat. I don’t think Dr Reid is ready for that: he’s still experiencing reality breaks and dissociation. We’d risk compromising his recovery and there’s a high chance he’d think he was back in the shipping container.” She pursed her lips and looked directly at him. “But Reid? In no way does that mean that I agree you should confront her directly.”

He twisted away and ran his fingers through his hair. Emily started drumming her fingers again on the counter. “How about,” she began, “How about we link you by video conference?” She turned and searched their faces. “That offers the opportunity to cut the feed if needed.”

“And no scents would be transmitted.” Tara nodded. “I’m onboard with that. Dr Reid?”

He took a shuddering breath and pushed away an encroaching tendril of ivy. Did he… _could_ he come virtually face to face with an unsub who’d left him imprisoned in the cold and dark for so long reality and fabrication now had a habit of merging together. “I’m not…” He clocked their expressions: both of them tentatively hopeful of his ability to shake the unsub sufficiently to charge her with his extended abduction. “…going to say ‘no’,” he amended. A mocking fern unfurled through the sink drain hole and swayed in a non-existent breeze.

They weren’t fooled by the switch. “Are you sure?” Emily persisted. He nodded and she sighed, resigned to the necessary. “Well, we’ve got,” - she looked down at her watch - “45 minutes to get this set up. I’ll go and get Garcia on it. And Tara…” She wordlessly jerked her head in Reid’s direction.

“I’m on it,” Tara said. She shoved his coffee back towards him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

He laughed humorlessly but did as she’d instructed anyway. “How’s this going to work?” he asked between sips, feet scuffing away the leaf mold coating the kitchen floor.

“You’ll sit next to me. I’ll ask the questions. You answer any questions addressed to you.”

He considered this a few moments and found it acceptable. “Am I going to be able to ask questions too?”

Tara shook her head. “It would be best if you didn’t. Like Emily said - you aren’t reinstated yet. Why? Is there something you want answered?”

He picked up the mugs, limped over to the sink and rinsed them, flushing away the fern. “I’d like to know why,” he said. “Why she picked me. Why she did what she did. And why she thought she had the right.”

Tara gave him a half smile. “You may never get those answers, Reid. But I can try asking.”

Thirty minutes later and they were sitting at a table, a screen showing an empty interrogation room in front of them. Tara was imperturbable, but Spencer was jittering and trying not to show it. The sound of a door opening came over the audio. He pulled his shaking hands down into his lap.

Two unremarkable middle-aged women came into view, both dressed in a neat suits with tidy hair and unobtrusive make-up. Spencer picked out the lawyer by the attaché case she was carrying. Which meant the other was the academic who had imprisoned and _modified_ him. The unsub looked like she was sitting down in a coffee shop for a gossip: unhurried and unconcerned by events around her.

“Just so you know,” the lawyer said, pulling out papers from her case, “I’ve instructed my client to say nothing.”

Tara huffed dismissively. “You ready?” she asked. He nodded. She leaned across to the laptop and pressed to unmute themselves. While Tara went through the formalities, Spencer studied the unsub. He recognized her face, which made sense given that Alvez had mentioned they’d met at Georgetown. In turn, she was studying him back, no nervousness at her situation in her features. He swallowed in discomfort, unable to reconcile this smart professional with his nemesis, and a smile flitted across her face.

And as easily as that, the knowledge of how to unseat her rolled across him. He lifted his shaking hands back onto the table, clasped them together and looked down, trying - and still failing - to look calm.

Beside him, Tara asked a question. Silence met it, and he didn’t even need to look up to know that the lawyer was sitting there with a smug smile, thinking her client was compliant. Tara tried again, one of his questions this time, and again the silence and stillness dragged in answer. He heard the lawyer shuffle papers, ready to demand the immediate release of the unsub. He didn’t move. If the unsub wanted her answers from him, and he was certain she did, she was going to have to damn well _ask_.

The lawyer cleared her throat, but over it, at last, he heard, “Tell me, Professor, where are you on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?”

The question’s tone was all wrong, soft and sibilant rather than harshly metallic. In this context - with her a suspect and him a victim - it was also horribly impertinent. The lawyer drew in a sharp breath. But the question was out there, and Spencer, shuddering, felt compelled to answer. “I’m fed and warm, ma’am,” he replied. “My team have ensured I get enough water and I'm well rested. I’ve clothes and access to a bathroom.” He hunched inwards and forced himself not to look across at Tara. “But I don’t feel safe.” His voice, unbidden, was suddenly much tighter. “The hallucinations haven’t stopped with my release, and I’m scared about losing control of myself.” He didn’t look up, keeping on display all the subordinate body language that her presence was inducing anyway. A crick pulsed in his neck but he didn’t move to relieve it: on the other side of the laptop, a fierce, whispered conversation was being held. The odd word floating across convinced him that it was only a matter of time before something truly incriminating was said.

“You fear your behavior, Professor?” her voice oozed eventually. Tara was hardly breathing beside him. He swallowed again, closing his eyes against a slow pounding in his temple. His clasped hands were shaking so much they were actually rattling against the table. “How are you monitoring it?” she whispered. “Which experiments have you completed to determine your behavior?”

He heard himself give a small gasp of dismay and could feel the tug of the forest. With an effort he anchored himself into his seat. “My team have subjected me to a range of stimuli, ma’am,” he choked out. “They were provided with a list of sorts. They’ve monitored my conditioned reactions.”

“That’s all, Professor? They’ve just monitored your reactions?” The unsub’s chair scraped against the floor as she leaned forward. “There’s been no attempt to break your conditioning?”

“We can’t, ma’am,” he admitted, and at last raised his head so she could see the despairing truth in his eyes. “We’re trying, but we don’t know how yet.”

She appeared flummoxed by his response, sitting back in shock. “But… why not?”

Beside him, Tara stirred. “Dr Reid is unable to cognitively process many of the stimuli.”

The unsub mouthed an ‘oh’ of understanding and licked her lips. Beside her, the lawyer watched her reaction then flipped papers in her file. “This proves nothing. We all know Professor Blake consulted with my client on the details of the victim.”

The room lapsed into silence again for a moment, the deadline getting ever closer. This wasn’t going to be enough for her, Spencer was sure. She was going to want to know what they’d tried to get him to detect the conditioning stimuli. Beside him, Tara snuck a not-so-surreptitious look at her wristwatch; the unsub tracked her doing so and squirmed.

The lawyer caught the unsub’s tell too. “If that’s all?” she broke in, and her head disappeared from the laptop frame as she rose partly out of her seat. “Then I think we’re done here.”

“Wait!”

The lawyer paused, and what they could see of her torso turned. “They’ve nothing on you, Meredith,” they heard. “I advise you not to say another word.”

“Tell me what you’ve tried,” the unsub blurted out, and Spencer ducked his head to hide a small smile of triumph.

As the question wasn’t clearly directed at him, he left it for Tara to answer. With a sense of inevitability, for this was about upsetting the status quo not assuaging his sensibilities, he listened to his colleague detail their many failures of the days before. “Dr Reid collapsed when subjected simultaneously to juniper and banana,” she concluded. “I think we,” - and Tara indicated the space between them - “thought it would be a harmless experiment to try and were a bit shocked when it wasn’t.”

The unsub laughed, long and cruelly. Spencer jerked his head up and watched her enjoy his discomfort, confused. Was that bit of their profile wrong? Did she enjoy other’s pain after all?

“We’re on a screen,” Tara murmured, quietly enough for the microphone not to pick it up, and Spencer understood: she wasn’t having to confront her actions directly. As when she’d presumably watched him before in the Cell via infrared video recordings, now she was watching him on a live stream, and felt dissociated from it.

“I intend to incapacitate Dr Reid next,” Tara ventured. “We’re hoping that the additional effort he’ll need to make to compensate for the induced psychomotor retardation will break through his conditioning. Look, how about we stream the experiment to Dr Blake’s office? I’m sure Spencer wouldn’t mind if we set up an advisory panel.” Spencer gulped. “Isn’t that right, Agent Reid?”

“Yes, right,” he croaked. “I’m sure we could use your help.”

The unsub was transfixed. “I’d be delighted!” she agreed. “Perhaps you’ll let me take notes?”

“Of course,” Tara smoothly agreed. “You’ll probably need to ask Agent Reid to describe his experiences too.”

She cast him an ingratiating smile. “That would be wonderful,” she declared, and he had to focus hard to smile meekly back at her, stomach churning.

“Dr Reid and I were pondering how best to drug him,” Tara blithely continued, and he jerked as her foot very deliberately trod on his under the table. “I thought I might try Flunitrazepam.”

In view of the foot press, Spencer took care to hide his frown, even while being unsure why Tara would pick a drug known for date rape and medical treatment of insomnia. He nodded docilely, mimicking the body language of a scared victim who was completely prepared to sleep involuntarily while an advisory panel watched in. But he understood in a rush when the unsub cackled and said, in a low, secret-sharing voice, “I wouldn’t recommend that, Dr Lewis. I discovered the Professor here has a paradoxical reaction to Rohypnol.”

“Oh?” Tara said, and picked up a pen as if to take notes.

“It makes him highly suggestible, even violent,” she gloated. “And anterograde amnesia will mean he’ll forget anything you’ve told him to do.”

It took a moment for the implication of what she’d said to sink in, then Spencer felt his hands stick to the table and pulled them up in a rush. Beside him, he could vaguely hear Tara saying “Anything? Can you give me an example you’ve tried?” but the world was tilting and he was falling off his chair into a mossy bed dotted with pine needles and small wildflowers. Trees soared overhead and butterflies flitted around him. There was the sound of a waterfall cascading nearby and the scent of damp earth tickling his nostrils…


	4. The Gap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delay in posting this. This chapter fought me hard, and life got a bit crazy for a while.
> 
> Be aware there are references to some of the events of Season 12 in this chapter.
> 
> In the last chapter, Reid, together with Tara, remotely interrogated the unsub who had imprisoned him in a buried shipping container. The unsub was surprised they hadn’t yet ‘fixed’ Reid’s conditioning, and detailed that he became highly suggestible, even violent, when given Rohypnol.

“Hey.”

He blinked and turned his head to bring Tara into view. She was kneeling next to him, light streaming through a window behind her, setting dust motes dancing and haloing her hair. It was all very tranquil and unhurried. He levered himself up onto his elbows and saw the table he’d been sitting at before, the laptop presumably still on it out of sight. Twisting a little more, he found the two chairs they’d been using pushed aside, one toppled over.

“Do you know where you are, Dr Reid?”

He’d been paranoid before when resurfacing after confronting the Gap so he understood why she was asking. He nodded in reply and scooted back to the wall. Resting his head against the plasterboard, fingernails pressed into his right arm, he closed his eyes. “I think after that I deserve an explanation.” He imagined his words hanging in the air above him, jarring and discordant compared to the quiet of the room.

Tara gave a resigned sigh. He heard her stand and shift the chairs around. “I’ll be back in a moment then,” she said.

True to her word, she returned quickly, placing two paper cups of water on the table. Emily slunk in behind her. “I’ve cleared our schedule,” Tara announced, and Spencer thought humorlessly that it surely couldn’t have taken long. “We won’t be disturbed until dinner.”

“Okay.”

She looked carefully at where he still slouched on the floor. “That is… you seemed insistent. If you would prefer…?”

“No.” Before his nerve failed him, he scrambled to his feet and limped to join her at the table, pulling one of the paper cups towards him. “I’ve had enough surprises. I want my life back.” The laptop caught his eye and he realized he had an unasked question. He shot a glance to Tara, the question already forming on his lips.

“We charged her,” Tara reassured him. “She named one of your unlisted stimuli after you’d left your seat.” 

‘ _Left your seat_ ’, what a polite euphemism for ‘willfully hallucinated’, Spencer thought, mouth twisting. He ran his finger through condensation on the side of the cup, trying to divert a drip which was slowly making its way to the bottom. “Are we going to try a cognitive?” he asked.

“I think that’s the best option. You know you’ve been consciously blocking recall of this memory; you’ll probably need to be in a safe space before you let yourself remember.”

“Do you know what I’m going to say?” Spencer winced at the wobble in his voice but thought his colleague would probably understand.

“Some of it, yes,” Tara reassured. “Enough to give you a starting point anyway.” She reached out across the table and briefly laid her hand on top of his. He stared at their connection, mind whirring, and deliberately slipped into his forest. Trees sprung up around them, a brook trickled softly across the table, grass and buttercups pushed up between his splayed fingers _._

“Are you ready?” Tara asked.

A ladybug landed on his arm, red armor dotted with spots and wings fluttering. “Uh, yeah,” he replied. “I think.”

He got an acknowledging huff in reply before Tara opened with, “I’d like you to think back to last August, Dr Reid. Specifically, the day you returned from your summer teaching sabbatical.”

He settled into his seat, the memory of teaching a happy one. “The Georgetown summer program. I taught an extra credit course on criminal pathology. Alex - Dr Blake - had arranged it.”

“Uh huh. And meanwhile we were closing a case out in North Dakota.”

“There was a tornado warning. You know, statistically, it was late in the season for-”

“Reid,” Emily gently interrupted.

Tara smiled as he stopped. “We got held up. Prentiss suggested you use the day to catch up on overdue compliance training.”

He wrinkled his nose. The online programs went at their own plodding pace and he was by no means the only one to avoid completing them. By the time he’d registered perfect scores in his tests, plus completed his weapon re-qualification, his psychometric evaluation and his drug test, his head was throbbing, his eyes were gritty and every bone in his body ached. “Garcia suggested we catch a movie since the case was done,” he softly recalled. “It was something to do with, uh, lions I think.” He’d begged off, truthfully citing a developing migraine, but now he remembered that her suggestion had seeded an idea. It was, after all, a day for ticking off obligations, internalized or not. 

Tara folded her hands onto the desk and leaned slightly forward. He held still with a swallow of nerves. “You didn’t go straight home.”

“No.” He bit his lip. The ladybug flew off in fright. “I… I went, uh, to meet some people some place else.” Did she expect him to _say_? The team knew, of course. But there was a world of difference between an FBI agent tossing into casual conversation that he was heading off to watch a movie and that same agent stating during an official investigation that he’d been attending a Narcotics Anonymous meeting at the Church of Our Lady.

“I want you to think back to the church, Reid,” she said, and he flinched. So much for keeping it off the record. “What are you sensing? Sight, smell, sound…”

For a moment, he resisted. Then common sense reared: if that was where he was taken, then the fact that he’d been there was already widely known. His abduction would have been investigated at the time. While it might have taken them a while to track down his taboo destination, they’d have been relentless in their search. He hung his head, closed his eyes and thought back. The squeak of rubber-soled feet, creaking wooden pews, and anonymous pleasantries intruded upon the tranquil forest. Polish, coffee and incense wafted on the overheated breeze…

**Church of Our Lady  
** **Evening of August 25**

Although the meeting still had a while to run, a few attendees were beginning to slip out. Reid, his ‘Hi, I’m Spencer and I’m an addict’ confession delivered, idly watched them go and wondered whether to leave too. His headache had abated, but the room hadn’t lost that afternoon’s heat: it was still uncomfortably stuffy and hot despite the lateness of the hour. A dribble of sweat trickled unpleasantly down his back.

He decided to refresh his coffee from the table at the back and, standing, carefully worked his way out of the row of chairs. Movement caught his eye, and he instinctively turned towards it only to see a woman making her way _into_ the meeting. The woman was looking as hot and bothered in the high humidity as Reid felt, her plain polo shirt clinging to her. When she pulled her Dodgers baseball cap off and swiped at her brow with her forearm, Reid could see hair stuck to her forehead. Her face was shiny with perspiration, light reflecting off it as she scanned the room.

The object of her search was revealed when she approached the refreshments. “’Scuse me,” she muttered, bodily inserting herself just ahead of him at the table to reach towards the coffee. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

Reid frowned at the invasion of his personal space but retreated a step with an inarticulate murmur of politeness. While he waited, he ran a finger around the back of his collar and pulled ineffectively at the knot in his tie. A wisp of cooler air from one of the windows open high in the wall lifted a curl of his hair. A smile briefly played on the woman’s lips as she reached for the sugar. She recklessly tipped the contents into her drink, and Reid was not in the least surprised when a large stream of it slid into the hot liquid.

“Dammit!” she swore and reached for a new cup.

“I’ll take it,” he offered. And then when she turned, confusion written on her features, he clarified, “I like my coffee sweetened.”

“You like it like _this_?” She held up the coffee between them, pinching the edge between thumb and forefinger and looking at the paper cup as if it repelled her.

“Yeah.”

She gave him another disbelieving look, then turned back to grab a cup lid. “Well then, here,” she said and passed it over.

He smiled in thanks, took a quick sip to check, and elaborately sighed in contentment despite the blend’s tepidness and slightly bitter aftertaste.

“Well, you’re something else,” she marveled. “That’s, what, 6 spoons of sugar? You just trading addictions?”

He laughed softly and took another few sips, moving to the back where he could enjoy the occasional wafts of cooler air from the window. His body twitched and shook as the day’s heat finally leached away.

“Hey, you alright?” he heard her ask.

Reid rocked his head in the direction of the sound. “…wha?” he slurred, and slithered down the wall propping him up. The floor crazily tilted and span until - with a soft thud of impact - it made contact with his face. For a moment, he lay there; stunned, squished into a heap, not entirely sure why he was no longer upright. The smell of polish was overpowering. He could see coffee dregs oozing out of his dropped cup.

He blinked and footprints trailing through the split coffee had appeared. A hand reached for his waist and removed his gun. Before he could even think to form a protest, the hand transferred to his arm and shook him.

Sound finally hit. “… some fresh air?”

Another blink, and he was being hauled upright, head hanging. A hand in his hair tilted his face and the bright light caused him to recoil. And then he was being steered out of this sacred sanctuary, feet dragging, all the while a gentle voice reassuring him not to worry - that she would take care of everything.

**Secure Unit, Quantico  
** **Now**

“Need a moment?” Tara asked, looking up from where she was taking notes.

Words failed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hand into them. “Oh son of a bitch,” he swore at last without rancor. “I was _roofied_. At a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.”

Tara murmured a wordless, soothing nothing beside him.

“Sorry,” he eventually muttered.

“No problem. Take your time.” She laid aside her notepad. When he eventually looked up, she added, “Do you think you can come up with a description for her?”

He closed his eyes again and called up the memory. “Asian female. Late 40s. Maybe 5 ft 4. 130 to 140 lb. Brown eyes. Black hair. East coast accent.” He had a strong memory of her oddly soft, melodic voice. “High end shoes which didn’t really match the rest of her outfit. No ring. No purse either - her keys and phone were in her back pocket.”

Tara was still writing. When she was done, she reviewed her notes. “Well, that matches.”

“What?”

“Our unsub. That description matches Miranda Song.”

He blinked. “Oh.” He thought back. “Wouldn’t I have recognized her from Georgetown? And not forgetting that statistically, around 1 in every 400 females living in Washington DC are middle-aged Asians.”

Tara tapped the pen to her lips but finally sighed. “Okay. So, you were helped out to the lobby.”

Right. Higher oxygen levels in the fresh air would allow his mind to clear a bit. He hung his head and breathed deeply, tiptoeing into his hazy memory. “I’m, uh, I…” He pressed a hand to his forehead and fabricated a comforting blanket of pillowy-soft moss around him. “Uh…”

“It’d be less crowded there. Cooler. Quieter.”

“No. There’s just a lot of confused… It’s out of order. I can’t make sense of this.”

“Okay.” Tara remained imperturbable. “Tell me what you have, and we’ll sort through it together.”

He nodded. “There’s… there’s light coming through a window?” The scene shifted abruptly. “And lots of blood. I’m kneeling on the ground.” He drew to a halt. “There’s someone with me!” He panted and looked down; blood from his hand was dripping onto the carpet.

“Breathe, Spencer. Who is with you?”

“A woman! Lindsey Vaughn! Oh god, my mom…!” He gasped and gaped at her, then shook his head, shuddering. His illusion collapsed around him.

“Reid?”

His head buzzed, white filled his vision, and his world tilted again. When he was next aware, he was lying on the floor. He examined his clean hands, then scratched at his forearms, needing the sharp burst of pain. “I can’t. I… I don’t remember.” He looked across at Tara, kneeling next to him. “Don’t make me remember,” he said plainly.

Tara’s frowned, her gaze abruptly sharper. Emily coughed, and after a moment Reid looked across at her.

“Don’t make me remember?” she mouthed. 

He replayed his words in his mind. “Uh, I meant, I _don’t_ remember.” He looked down at his arms and winced: he’d drawn blood this time. For safety, he transferred his hands to his head and ran them through his hair before burying his face in his hands.

Tara’s voice, when she spoke, sounded tentative. “I think you’re getting confused with Mexico, Reid.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” He didn’t look up.

“I need you to know you’re safe here.”

He nodded, eyes still downcast.

Tara took a deep breath. “So, what happens when you remember, Reid?” she said.

He teetered for a moment, then touched the memory again. Blood stained his hands. A soft voice whispered into his thoughts and threatened his mind. He was held firm even as he squirmed to escape. When he floated free, he was frozen, watching as shadows reared and folded into him. Blood and gore poured out of his mouth and nose. Bandages wrapped slowly up around his torso, entombing him. He screamed and choked in terror.

“Stop,” said Emily and Tara said, “Reid, I need you to follow my voice back to this room.”

He did what they told him. When he was finished gasping, Tara pensively met his gaze. “That’s seems to be more than a confused memory, Reid.”

He plucked at the carpet underneath his hands and broke eye contact. “Victims of trauma often experience dissociative amnesia wherein the hippocampus suppresses recollection of otherwise overwhelming events.”

“No,” Tara mused. “No, I don’t think so. The unsub said anterograde amnesia. She’s blocked you forming the memory somehow.”

Quiet descended on the room. The ladybug flew back in and landed on the back of Reid’s hand. He twisted it back and forth in a sunbeam for a while causing the insect to scuttle around on the uneven surface. “She’s wrong,” he confessed eventually. “I think the memory’s there.”

“But you’re terrified of it.” Tara had a deeply assessing look on her face. “She’s threatened you.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, and jerked his hand so the ladybug flew away.

“Do you want to carry on?”

He considered, then shook his head.

“Okay,” Tara softly accepted. They sat in companionable silence a while longer until Reid shook himself. Tara gave him a gentle smile and began to pack away.

“How about when I came back?” he asked. “Have you worked out how she did that?”

Tara paused, papers bundled into a file but not yet tidied into order. “You were let into the building when you showed your ID. There’s video of you in the elevator before you made your way to the desk where Garcia found you.”

He examined his memories and found nothing. “I couldn’t even see properly,” he objected.

“You still had trace amounts of Rohypnol in your blood stream. We think the unsub dropped you off nearby, gave you instructions and your eidetic memory-”

“Meant that I remembered precisely how to get to my desk?”

She nodded, and he considered it. Calculation of distance, angle and pace length; knowledge of where he’d been dropped when he couldn’t see. It seemed unlikely, but not impossible.

“Where did she drop me?”

Tara exchanged a look with Emily, and abruptly he realized that they were _both_ real. “We’re not sure,” Emily admitted. “We’ve accounted for all vehicles in the vicinity.”

“So we’re no further forward?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Emily corrected. “We’ve got the unsub.”

“And,” added Tara, banging the papers in her folder straight with a satisfied thump, “She’s going away for a very long time.”

**Church of Our Lady, parking lot  
** **Evening of August 25**

The soft encouragement pulled Reid through the parking lot and into a corner only weakly illuminated by kaleidoscopic light falling from a stained-glass window. He thought maybe there might be something wrong with his situation, but every time his foot dragged or his head lifted, the voice lullingly prompted him onwards. Until at last it didn’t. “You can sleep here,” the voice soothed.

He blinked sluggishly in the gloom still trying to make sense of what was going on. The edges of objects blurred and swam, but after a while he worked out that there was a van next to him with its side door open. After another while he knew that, inside, a pallet was made up for him with sheets and blankets.

“Why don’t you lie down here and sleep,” the voice repeated, still endlessly patient and reassuring.

“Okay,” he mumbled, and put out a hand to steady himself as he crawled into the den. Except, as his hand touched the lintel, rose-tinted light from the stained glass fell on it and, very suddenly, he could see blood, spilling from a wound on his hand. He jerked away, hard, and collided with something, no - some _one_ \- immediately behind him. Even in his disorientated state, he could tell that the someone was bigger than him: the huffed, tense breathing was coming from over his head. Worse, if the cursed imprecation was anything to go by, this man was spoiling for a fight. Reid tightened his grip on the knife in his right hand, braced his arm, pivoted and totally missed his target, spinning himself into a lurching stagger which ended with him crashing down onto his right knee.

The man jeered. “Wanna try that again?” A finger pointed at his chin in a clear taunt.

Reid found his balance and regained his feet. He threw a punch with his free hand but the man drew his head back to dodge it. His opponent raised a mocking eyebrow, and slowly - Reid watching all the way - raised his finger and poked Reid in the chest. To his chagrin, Reid staggered backwards with the impact. The man’s mouth curved into an unpleasant grin as he stalked a step closer.

There was a soft laugh to his side. “Try slapping him this time, Spencer Reid.” The man checked his steps and threw an irritated look off to where the melodic voice had come from.

Spencer frowned, but took the opportunity offered by the man’s distraction. He slammed his left palm into the exposed cheek with a satisfying smack of flesh. The man turned his glitteringly angry gaze back to Spencer.

“Now his stomach.”

“Fucking hell, Amanda!” protested the man while Spencer jerked his knife hand forward and struck hard. There was little resistance, so Spencer pulled back and gazed in confusion at the lack of both knife and wound.

There was a moment of tense silence before the man advanced another menacing step. Spencer tried to stand his ground, but his head nodded and a heavy blink overtook him. He heard the man come closer still and hands methodically pat him down. By the time he had swung his head up and dragged his eyes open, the man had found and taken his cell phone.

“No tengo dinero,” Spencer mumbled in undoubtedly excruciating Spanish as his wallet was removed. The man snorted but sure enough when the wallet was opened there were no dollar bills inside and it was thrown away. The intrusive search resumed, the man crouching down, finding his ankle holster and taking his spare weapon. This time the man turned to look to the side, anger again rearing, and skittered the gun across the tarmac.

“Oops,” the soft voice apologized.

“You’re as useless as he is.”

Another soft laugh, and a gentle suggestion to kick. Reid raised his knee as the man straightened and landed an unexpectedly solid hit to his groin. With an inarticulate yelp, the man crashed back down, groaning and rocking himself. A flush of nausea swept across Reid and by the time he’d pulled his head up again and slowly blinked, the man had recovered enough to be standing with his face thrust directly into Reid's.

“Careful,” came the feminine voice. “We can’t have him needing medical.”

“I warnt gonna hur’ him,” Reid protested, backing away to prove his point.

Soft, mocking laughter again assailed him - only this time it came from behind as well. Reid twisted to face this new threat and tangled himself in his own legs.

“Jesus,” he heard as he hit the deck. A toe prodded him and he gagged. “You _sure_ this is a cop?”

“‘ _This_ ’ is a highly decorated agent, Dilford. Who really shouldn’t still be conscious considering the massive dose of Rohypnol he was given.” The voice which floated down to him now was elegant, assured and menacing. Reid shrank from it, and from the steel-capped boots which came into view. “Can we _please_ try to get him into the van before someone sees.”

There was silence for a moment, so Reid slowly blinked his eyes open again. His attacker was stooped over him, one hand descending towards his shoulder. With instincts born of many drill sessions with Morgan, Reid reached up and tugged the hand hard, using the man’s own weight against him. With an ‘oof’ of surprise, the man toppled, and all of a sudden Reid couldn’t breathe. He squirmed trying to get his face and chest free, gasping tiny, ineffective breaths, grappling at the immobile mass of flesh weighing him down. The large man’s face reappeared, anger reddening his cheeks and glittering from his eyes as Spencer’s flailing got progressively weaker.

“They teach you that at Benning, Dilford? Squashing your victims into submission?” The elegant voice only served to make the large man angrier.

Reid gasped, wheezing desperate breath into his lungs. His arms flopped to the ground, unable to shift the dead weight crushing his body.

“Oh, Spencer Reid? I need you to listen carefully before you pass out.” The face of the woman who had given him coffee earlier appeared abruptly in his darkening vision, her soothing voice tinged with threat. “Did you know it’s possible to extract brain matter via the nose? What am I saying? Of course you did.” She laughed to herself and he felt something long and thin being fed up his left nostril. He tried to raise an arm to bat her away but his limbs refused to respond. “The Egyptians used this technique in mummification,” she continued, “Although usually their subjects were dead enough to not feel it.” There was a grunt of impatience from the man weighing Spencer down and the thing in his nose jabbed upwards. “I’ll pull your brain out if I have to, Spencer, but I’d prefer you to forget instead. The drug you’ve been given will help. You won’t remember this evening. Repeat that back to me.”

He complied, whispering words out on fading reserves of air. “I won’ re- re…”

“Try again, Spencer Reid. You don’t remember this evening.”

He swallowed saliva pooling in his mouth and blinked heavily. He felt very detached now and this voice was the only thing anchoring him to the here and now. “I… I don’t… don’t remem-ber… this…”

“Good. Because remembering equals lobotomy. Get off him, Dilford.” The elephantine weight eased, the thing slithered out of his nose. Spencer heaved a gasp and tried to move his freed limbs. He couldn’t even open his eyes. “Say it again.”

He felt himself being picked up and transported as he desperately mumbled, “I don’t remem’er.” He couldn’t work out which way was up any more and his face and mouth were dragging against shirt material as he formed the words. “Don’t… Dun re… re… mem… ber.”

“One more time, Professor Reid. Then you can sleep.”

He was dropped onto material which was soft and pliant against his boneless body. He slurred some words without opening his mouth, every fiber of his remaining being trying to convey that he wouldn’t remember. Hands pulled at his shoes and clothes while he quietly roared the pledge in his mind.

And then, as the van pulled out of the parking lot, he slept.


End file.
